Saccharine Nights
by anarchyinthecity
Summary: It made me feel like the tears on my cheeks were drying, turning to ash, painting my face as black, black as I felt. Vampires are human because they try not to be, I thought. Anita Blake verse', OCx?, 1st Person POV, set around 'Incubus Dreams.'
1. Prolouge

AN: This is my first 'official' story. Don't kill me.

Oh, and what in the hell happened to the 'Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter' Category? I was all ready to add this story there.

Rated **M** because of Violence, Obscenity, a _maybe _later lemon, and all that yummy Anita-type stuff.

(Note, this is the revamped version, which was made in 2010.)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for maybe my own pathetic attempts at making an OC.

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**Saccharine Nights**

Prologue

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I don't believe in fairy tales. Neither do I pray with the masses, or wish for a happy ending. Those kinds of things have and always will be out of reach for me. Some of the things, like praying, seem much like a waste of time, a supposed, and untrue, salvation. The only thing I would pray in would be humans, and even then, we aren't really worth any prayer. I sound melodramatic, don't I? Like a soppy comic book character or deranged pioneer, blathering about truth and righteousness. I hope, with a heavy heart, that what I believe in is right. Yet I continue to contradict myself. And again, hope is for fools. I know that. It can save a life, yet it can also be poisonous. The sickly sweet red of an apple before it goes bad, decaying from the inside out.

I suppose I am a fool. Yet how can I be a fool if I realize that I'm one? An insane person usually doesn't know that they're insane. An idiot doesn't know that they are an idiot. I _know _that I'm a fool. I've got to be. I make too many mistakes for it to be brushed off as plain crass. I think too hard, sometimes. Like right now. At this dreary state of my life, I am alone. Being alone isn't so bad. It's depressing, but I've got no one to blame for myself. I'm in my own sort of solitary confinement. I can beat my head against the wall as many times as I fancy, but that's not going to keep my life from going onward. As I stare at the wall in question, my feet hanging loosely off my grey, conventional mattress, I think about life, and the predicaments which led me to where I am now. I've devoured the works or Shakespeare, Dante, Plato and Aristotle, among others. But I have not yet found the correct amount of words to explain how I act, why I do this, and why I do that.

Enough of philosophy, I determined. I was blathering on, and anyways, I can get depressed easily, if I think about shit like that too much. My black rimmed eyelids finally cracked open, and my heavy, insomnia afflicted body turned to look at the floor length window to the right. My muscles complained, but personally, I continued to stay silent. I study my room, saving the window for last. My eyes strain over the sheer amount of books in the tiny room. Books and books and piles of books are scattered everywhere, a couple open ones thrown carelessly on the ground for later consumption. I reach over to a half finished book near my head. I ignore the dark stain on my hand and turn it over, squinting at the title.

Sun Tzu's 'The Art Of War.'

Not that I don't have enough of that in my life already. I violently throw it across my room and immediately regret it. I had liked that book, and I childishly damaged it. And along with that, I lost my page number. Sighing, I continue studying my room. The ceiling is leaking again. Well, enough of _that_. My eyes move and finally rest on my dusty, old window. Being very large and very… _open_, I normally have it covered to some extent, but last night I was simply too tired to shut the makeshift quilt, AKA. Heavy curtains. The window reaches from the ceiling to the floor, and I loved it, however absurd it was. It was very easy window to see into, and anyone could have seen me in my room. It didn't matter- I didn't have anything of value for robbers and the sort. This wasn't a great neighbourhood- you can tell, by the dank flavour of drugs and musk that resided in the air, and of the frequent glimpses of graffiti and litter. A burst of light makes me squint repeatedly and swear, I did _not _know it was sunrise time yet. My eyes adjust, and I watch as the early rays of an autumn morning peek in from behind a row of skid roe townhouses across from my cheap-ass apartment. Aside from the state of my urban environment and grungy room, the sky is beautiful.

The tangy scent of iron attacks my nostrils as I enjoy the view, and I look down at the state of my clothes in horror. They shouldn't be called clothing, seeing as it was pretty much shreds on my body. Shred s dripped in blood. I sat up, a jolting movement, and stared at my hands, a look of unadulterated fear crossing my face. This was not the time to be brave. My hands… no, not just my hands, my whole body had been splattered, drenched, with, now dried, blood. The whole effect was somewhat like I'd stood in front of a dirge of butchering, the blood splatter, in itself, like a work of modern art. I could-_would_ not believe what was happening. I found myself wishing everything would go away. Oh, please…I'm so scared… And _hoping_… Oh, no, now, hoping is for idiots and fools, remember, Jacqueline? I just have to..I can't... I can't freak out. The thought sprang up and out of my subconscious, halting my would-be panic attack. It would be alright. (It wouldn't, but who was I to judge?) If I could just... forget about what happened last night. Forget _everything_.

I can't believe they tracked me down. _Of course, who was I kidding, they were vampires._ But I dropped everything, kept moving, lived in shit holes for _nine_ straight months. The only thing that stayed with me were my books. A split second decision to pack them into the rusty trunk of my impala, carrying them from crappy apartments, to shitty motels, to musky basement suites. I was so careful. And yet...

The sun arose slowly, oblivious to my terror. Striking colours of orange and red lit the sky. I forgot, if only for a moment, what had happened last night. Flashes of phantom memory and skin, tearing, blood everywhere…The sky itself is still beautiful, even with the horror that the blood on my clothes and my skin, and now on my mattress, came from more than one person, and those people will never again see a beautiful autumn morning as I am.

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Sorry for the short beginning. Review, please! The chapters will come out much faster if you do. And please don't be afraid to give me constructive criticism.


	2. Odds & Ends

Thanks to Sarri Sorikun, SerenadeInTheMoonlight , & The Obsidian Ink for reviewing. It makes me want to write! More reviews equals more writing. But now I've pretty much decided to write at least a chapter a month. No more procrastination.

In my verse, _thoughts go like this_, and _flashbacks_ as well. Normal text is for...normal stuff.

It's been a LONG time since I've even looked at my prologue, and just _vaguely_ remember what sort of plot I had worked out. Since I don't want to start again, I'm just going to change a bit in the prologue to suit the new plot, and the synopsis. I've also changed it so it's set around 'Incubus Dreams', for continuity's sake. It's going to be a lot different from what I thought it would be, since my writing has also changed ( I think, at least) and I'll try my best not to make my character Mary-Sueish at all.

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Chapter 1. Odds & Ends

A SMALL THEORY

People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and

ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a

multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing

moment. A single _hour _can consist of thousands of different

colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses.

In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.

-_Death_, The Book Thief

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I manage to pull my aching body, aching soul, off the grungy mattress. Stumble to the washroom, ignore my face staring back at me in the cracked mirror, accusatory, and turn on the shower. Don't stop don't stop. If I stop, I have to think. Thinking is my enemy right now. _Maybe later, I'll put my clothes in the laundry. _You can't ignore the necessities, even if you're trying to ignore other things. No reason to stop functioning because of an accident, just an accident.

I'm actually 23, even though people usually think I'm 19. It's quite annoying. Maybe because my facial structure is what you'd call babyish? Unlike most, it's not hard planes and angles, more soft. It's deceiving, and it bothers me; how I look. When I was younger, my mother said I was a princess, with my long blonde hair and green eyes. I also had the attitude to match it. Perhaps then, but certainly not now. I tend to act like an angry old man most of the time, actually. That's what my brother says...used to say. Nails dig into the fabric of my pants. I ignore that train of thought to look up. The room is small; the two goliath, industrial sized washing & drying machines take up the far right of the wall, the door across from them. That was all, and I sat, staring at the course walls, counting the cracks in the peeling yellow wallpaper like a child counts pennies. With a mind set on determination. The vibrations of the washing machine, which I was currently sitting on, jolted my bones through the sweatpants I slipped on in a haze.

A creak, the door opening with a heavy shuffle and a grunt, and The Manager, a greasy pig of a man, slips through the room with a basket full of dirty clothes in tow. I realized with a start, that I didn't care to get his name. Or I'd forgotten it. When had things like civility become second in my life? _When you ran. _A snarly voice in my head whispered. I imagined braining it. It didn't really matter, I convinced myself. The Manager, I decided, when I first met him, that I didn't like him anyways. He wasn't very likable, his first words being;

"_What's a young girl like you doing alone? You look too sweet to be in these parts." _

I hate cliches. He'd then further opened his sweaty lips to tell me that I'd better not be a whore, because he didn't rent to those types. Lovely. As of now, he just ignored me, thank god. His shirt, stained with god knows what (grease?) also ignored me. I didn't ignore it, focusing my attention on the stain so he'd get the idea that I wasn't going to talk to him. The state of my face probably did him in as well. I could feel the swelling, even though I'd decided not to look into any mirrors today. A gash, which was messily patched up, and a few other odds and ends, marked my face and arms. Yeah, I think he probably wanted to keep his distance. I stopped, and my eyes widened with the realization that the washing machine water was probably a dark red, considering the state of my clothes. Hopefully he didn't want to put his clothes with mine. If so, he would be sorely disappointed. I was keeping my butt on the machine.

He gave me a glare without looking in my eyes, somewhat reminiscent of a pug's mashed up, dejected expression, and stomped out of the small room once he realized I wasn't moving. Typical, typical. A newspaper, the NY Times, which was clutched under one of his arms, fell to the floor along his annoyed stomps. I slipped off the washing machine, a slight thump, and came to kneel beside the paper. My thighs screamed in protest. My hand reached for it, crumbled as it was. The date was first; October 22and. The headlines next.

A shaky sigh escaped my lips at the title. I didn't want to read it anymore. The washing machine beeped, a small sound, but I jumped. Perfect timing. Steps echoed in the desolate hallway as I made my way back to my room in silence, the wet dress dripping onto the floor with erratic grace. My own little rainstorm. Once I got back to my room, closet-like as it was, I hung the red dress up, and sat on the floor of the miniscule bathroom to cry. One could say I was emotionless; a robot, but that facade can't last long. It never does, in fact. I'm just human, just human.

Downstairs, the newspaper lay crumpled in the trash, heavy, small hands having held it just moments ago. It's title, now obscured, read _MASSACRE AT LOCAL NIGHTCLUB, VAMPIRE GANG LIKELY SUSPECTS._

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_

_Really, the whole mess started with the fucking picture. I hate to swear, but it was... it was. Nine months ago, I was perfectly normal. University student, part time job, the works. I even had myself a stupid little asshole of a boyfriend. And I say that in a good way, because he may have been an asshole, but he was normal. It's funny how you crave normality when your life goes to shit, but seek adventure when you have a picturesque one. Hell, hadn't even met a vampire; I'd heard of them, of course, but I've never met any of them. It was January 16__th__, and I had been excited, ecstatic, for the next photo-shoot I was attending with my mentor, a relatively famous p_**_ortraiture_**_ photographer in the Vermont area. The 30ish, going on 40, year old man took me to the local vampire hangout. He'd wanted to catch a look at the 'Master of the City' of Montpelier, going by the name of Arturas. _

_We picked the worst time to enter his bar, one of the largest and certainly the most popular in the city. I didn't know the whole story, but apparently Arturas had pissed off the head honchos of the vampire council, if that's what it could be called, by attacking another Master of the City, effectively starting war. Which was not allowed. I deduced this by watching his assassination later in the night. We never did get an audience with him. However, all of that didn't matter. What did matter, was the picture that I took. A frenzied, blurry picture, snapped during the chaos of screaming bodies and violence that happened after Arturas's death. It was a child, I had caught through my metallic eye. A young girl, pretty and sharing a striking resemblance to a very young Shirley temple, curls and all. She was giving me an accusatory look. What I found out later, was that this girl was a vampire. It wasn't too obvious in the picture, but it was enough. Enough for them to go after me. Well, not me, but the picture. Children-turned vampires were a hushed secret; not to be shown to the humans, I guessed. _

_A picture, the best evidence possible with vampires, considering how sneaky they could be. They couldn't allow this to leak to the press. The whole Addison vs. Clark business would be revoked, if people knew the horror of hundred's of years old beings stuck in a child's body. The day after the assassination, what it could be called, since it looked more like simple euthanasia to me, the media had a field day. Our little master of the city was the topic of many a headline. What had happened to him? Nobody wanted to talk about that night. I however, had a 'scared for my fucking life' day. A simple note had been stuck to my door during the night. It told me to drop the picture off at an address, and to never speak of it again. Suffice to say I was an American at the very end; defiant and obtuse. I refused, out of sheer stupidity. My little brother was killed in an accident a week later. I ran, for what I believed was my life. Now, I realize that they just let me run. I don't __know why, but they did. Maybe to humour themselves? I don't know. All I do know, is that several people died last night, and it was my fault. _

_

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_

There were more books stationed in the car, a still-going Ford Impala. The beat up car was bought on the cheap; It's ripped seats and bent fender attested to that. Still, I liked it. It had a charm to it, but what charm that it was, it didn't stop it from breaking down once in a while. Luckily today was not that day, and as I finished packing up the rest of my books, and random pieces of a wardrobe I really wasn't interested in improving on. The metal of the trunk groaned in pain as I shut it with swift movement. I shivered, the cold air biting at my exposed arms and legs. Getting a jacket wasn't really my priority at the moment. I gave one last glance at the New York skyline, the sun stitched behind the milky clouds, rain pattering slowly, reluctantly, onto the cold cement.

The door of the Impala was opened, another creak, as the car tended to like making noises, and was shut behind me as I settled into the seat. The engined was revved with a slight ghost of a smile on my part, a growl on the cars. Driving was relatively easy, not that anyone did much of it in NY. The real challenge was driving for 16 hours without killing myself out of sheer boredom.

Of course I had to leave again, and truthfully, who wouldn't? Almost all the vampires I knew hated me, and that was a lot. They may have gotten what they wanted last night, before the sun pierced through the dawn like I had prayed. But they hold grudges. I'm not stupid. They definitely hold grudges. I think, now that I'm, or was, effectively involved with them, they won't forget me. The next Master of the City, wherever I would think of going next, could be worse than...last night. I thought of where to go, to hide, and one comment, an abbreviated, crass comment, came to mind. What was it that he had said? "Jean Claude, even with his power-whore Anita, couldn't do as I. He can never come close." That was in response to one of his friend's (servant's?) whispered remark. Jean Claude. Anita Blake. The names, like phantoms, rested in my memory. A magazine article, and a picture, came to mind. A defiant, angry curly haired woman and a sultry man. I think I need to visit St. Louis. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, isn't that it?

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A.N: Hope you like. Review, and more chapters~


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